


Collected Fairy Tales of B.F. Skinner

by oonaseckar



Series: Your Host Tonight, Stiles Stilinski! [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dog training, Gen, M/M, Psychology, b.f. skinner, behaviorism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:14:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21585151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oonaseckar/pseuds/oonaseckar
Summary: Stiles is finding Derek irresistible.  And ungovernable.  And quite possibly, uneducable.
Relationships: Derek Hale & Isaac Lahey, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski & Chris Evans, Stiles Stilinski/Chris Evans
Series: Your Host Tonight, Stiles Stilinski! [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/52037
Kudos: 14





	1. strictly limit the spectrum of acceptable opinion

**Author's Note:**

> Behaviorism, what a stinky pile of disgusting doggy-doo. Especially as applied to actual human beings. What kind of entitled self-important twunt dreams up something like that?
> 
> Chapter title is Noam Chomsky.

"Maybe a choke-chain, what do you think-". Stiles carries on, moving down the aisle of the pet supplies store. He's not even checking if isaac is following on behind.

It's not a sure thing. What with that pole-axed look that's been gathering on his face since he met Stiles at the emporium devoted to all things pet-style, pett-ish, animal-friendly and vegan-lite, he might just have seized up and abandoned locomotion altogether.

But that's okay, because Stiles is actually talking into his phone at Scott, in any case. "I wish you were here to advise me, man," he moans, pitiful. "I asked Isaac along to come and advise me, but he's not really so much giving me any useful input. Not so much as you'd think anyhow. He just keeps freezing up and staring at me. I don't know if he's striking a pose –- you saw the pics I sent you, hot right? Danny thinks he's hot. At least someone around here is attractive to gay guys –- or if I've just broken something in his brain."

There's a cautious pause, before Scott is probably capable of responding. "Aw, yeah, man," he tries after a minute. Stiles has picked up a collar from the display at this point, and is fingering the links, trying to estimate what circumference of neck it'll work for, if it'll do the job he has in mind.

But Scott's brain gets over its temporary hiccup, and he resumes cognition and speech function in the relevant neuron clusters. "Stiles. I could maybe have an opinion. If I was sure what you're _doing_ in a pet store. With Derek Hale's PA. Looking at choke-chains." And he pauses there, and lets the silence speak for itself.

He's not the only one who wants to know. Because Stiles can feel, proprioceptively, Isaac tentatively easing up behind him. He can't see the questing, cautious look on his face, either, but damn it he knows it's there anyway. He smirks a little bit, then wipes it off. Turns enough for Isaac to see him as well as hear, doubles his audience. But he's still gazing innocently, at racks of dried bull penii, and doggie chews. "Where's the confusion, man? What are you confused about? Derek gave me a labrador puppy, I'm in the pet store, I'm looking for something to help me with my dog-training issues. Where is the issue here, is what I'm asking? Scott? Buddy?" He jiggles his arms around, gesturing at a non-existent audience, and the guy looking at a hamster house, an aisle across, gets glazed, that celeb-uncertain moment playing in his eyes. _Is he? Isn't he? Is it that guy who howls at a **big cheesy piece 'o pie, that's amore**_ , _in a TV studio with a bunch of asses who howl right along with him? The one who... what was it... the one that **Hale** guy fell all over and **licked** , on that show weeks back? All over the net. _

His daughters haven't been able to shut the fuck up about it since.

Stiles knows Scott will play along. If only because he knows exactly what it takes to get Stiles to simmer down, appeased. But the sigh in his ear is excruciatingly patient and resigned, like _lemme let you know how much you're making me suffer here_ and _there will be a price to pay down the line. "_ Oh, let's see, Stiles. Maybe because I saw Derek Hale _humping your leg on live national TV_ six weeks ago. And for some certifiable reason you're now _dating him_. Like maybe a choke-chain would be exactly the thing you might need to get him to, oh, let's see, maybe not do that. At least in public."

"Kinky," Stiles says smoothly, and throws the collar into the basket Isaac is pretending to be looking at, instead of earwigging in on his conversation with Scott. "I'll note the suggestion and take it under advisement. But Scott, I'm consulting you in your _professional_ capacity, brother. Why would you think anything else? You're practically a vet, you have knowledge of the canine species at your fingertips, you–"

"And you're too cheap to consult a qualified veterinarian who's going to send you a bill?" Scott snaps down the connection. "What are those assholes currently paying you, for whipping a bunch of studio-bound inbreds up into a frenzy? For flirting with Chris Evans, thinking up a new excuse to get his shirt off every time you have him on?"

"Man, that last bit, you hit it, _that_ is the _very thing_ they are paying me for," Stiles says proudly, puffing out his chest for the benefit of Isaac, and anyone else in the pet emporium who wants to check out his pride. And his pecs. "It's a gift, I'm a _giver_ , it's a service I'm performing for anyone with an active hormonal system, and who hasn't had it actually _drop off_ or _get stitched up_. That, right there, is exactly what I got my last contractual bonus for. Earned every penny, man! I haven't worked my way through the _fourth_ sack of thank-you letters yet. Not even emails, dude: _hand-made cards and candy_ is what the people of the nation have thanked me with. One lady sent me a cake she'd iced like Chris's torso. We could hardly bring ourselves to eat it, but then Olive the grip threatened to just start _licking it_ if no-one got busy with the cake-slice."


	2. disobedience, in the eyes of anyone who has read history, is mankind's original virtue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek is like a cyclone. You don't _adjust_ to it: you hunker down and pray to survive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Oscar Wilde.

He zones out dreamily, just for a moment. True, his crush on Derek has been of astonishing, endurance-testing long-standing, but it has not been entirely _faithful_. If Chris Evans cared to make an offer along the lines of _secret besties and serial hook-up_ – or indeed, had been the first to crawl over and hump his leg, mid-televised chit-chat, then he cannot guarantee that...

No, no. No. _Yes!_ No. He is nuts about Derek. He has _issues_ with Derek, true. He could wish him a little more socialized, a little less clearly troubled. But Derek's abs, his playful jokes, the unfeigned intensity of his feeling: these are enough, right now, to put all issues on the back burner, labelled 'Will Deal Once Nailed Down.'

There's currently a lot of _nailing_ going on.

Scott's sighing at him. Isaac is leaning up against the stand of chew-toys and giving him puppy-dog eyes, of the is-it-time-to-go-yet variety. Maybe Stiles needs _two_ choke-chains. He clicks his tongue and jerks his head at the pouty asshole, and Isaac obediently falls into place beside him. Stiles dumps the chain and the doggie-chews in Isaac's basket.

This dog-training malarkey: Stiles clearly has a whole alternate career waiting for him, when the first grey-hairs and chin-sags start to pop up. (Never. He's planning on being eternally youthful and yet a little distinguished, à la Timothy Olyphant.)

"Look, I worry about you," Scott says, breathing heavily down the line. "I know I haven't met the guy, but he seems possibly a little... unstable. I just don't want you to get hurt. Or spend ten years of unreasonable devotion over somebody who's just going to dump you for a model and marry her immediately."

 _Goddamnit_. Scott needs some tough-love training too. "We don't mention the L-word," he snaps, sharper than he ever normally is with his good bro.

"Lydia Lydia Lydia Lydia Lydia," Scott mutters. But Stiles didn't hear that. "Maybe I should come out this weekend, meet the asshole. Er, dude. See if he's good enough. I mean, if I actually report back to your Dad, then maybe he'll stop phoning me. And asking what he did wrong that you'd date a guy who works up a _head of friction_ against your shin, on live national TV."

Ah, Stiles doesn't want to think about that. He's still working on justifying Derek to his Dad. His current technique involves avoiding talking to his Dad in the first place, but that's only going to work for just so long. "You just want an excuse to come out and get a real-life look at Isaac," he drawls, because a) it'll distract Scott and b) it's probably true. He's shown Isaac pics of Scott. He's done ditto for Scott. And since that moment they have both been none too subtly jibbing and jostling for a subtle excuse to get a little closer. Within touchy-touchy touchable touching distance, no screens in the way, and Stiles probably dismissed for the afternoon.


	3. a dog that is dreaming very still

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is tired of waiting for Scott and Isaac to get it on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Margaret Wise Brown.

"You know, if one of you would just _use_ the numbers I've given you, and man up and call the other one, the resulting phone humping would spare me a lot of message carrying and aggravation. Isaac," Stiles begins, sounding as much like a nine-year-old girl with a pout as he can manage, "Scott _liiiiikes_ you. Scott, Isaac _liiiiiiiiiikes_ you too. There, the word is out, will you just start skyping and sexting already?"

And he shoves his phone into Isaac's unready hands, and mouths, "Now is a great time," in his ear, giving it some moist lippy action to get the fucker in the mood. Isaac flinches, nearly drops a very nice iPhone upgrade, but gives it a very tricky bit of juggling and manages to _bup_ and _hup_ and bounce it into steadiness in his hand, bring it up to his lovely aquiline cheekbone. His lovely sensitive mouth trembles a bit, and Stiles can just hear an irritable, "Stiles? What the fuck?" from Scott's end.

Stiles leans in and eyeballs Isaac. "Make it dirty. I'm gonna go pay for these," and he nods down at the chews and collars and chains in his basket, "and by the time I get back here I want you both to have come in your pants. _Twice_." He clicks his tongue contemptuously at Isaac's startled-bunny expression and lip-trembling. "What you waiting for anyway? You know how long it took me and your boss-man to get it going on? I don't know if you fuckin' remember this at all, but we'd just met, and we had an audience of hundreds – no, wait up a minute, that was just the studio, scratch that, we had an audience of friggin' _thousands_ while he went nought to sixty in, ah, I make it about a minute and a half before he was getting friendly with my scapula and had a stiffy that you could built a Habitat for Humanity with. And then once they'd dragged him away," Stiles says – fuck, he's enjoying himself, the fond reminiscing, and Isaac is terrified, and blushing, are those _tears_ glazing his lush eyelashes, give him a bodice and you could cast him opposite Fassbender in _Wuthering_ _Heights_ – "and dumped him in my dressing room, once I went to claim him we–-"

But Isaac has snapped, and Stiles can practically hear the _ping_ like a vigorously twanged garter, as a Victorian virgin gets bent over a Davenport writing desk and pillaged. He should definitely suggest that as a bit of role-play for their first Scisaacal fun in person. He's got a hold of Stiles by the shoulders – "Manly," Stiles notes appreciatively. "I like that." And he swivels him around, and his voice is only a little bit shaky.

"All right!" Isaac says. "Go and pay, then. I'm on it!"

But Stiles is not entirely done, not yet. He turns around, and when he says, reminds Isaac, "Twice!" he _really fucking means it._ Up at the end of the aisle, leaned up against the wire mesh trolley of doggie chocs, he don't care. _Twice_. There is definitely time. He has experience of Scott's levels of stamina from back in Allison days. There's time, all right.

"Yeah. Yeah yeah _yeah_." He gets a shove between the shoulder-blades – maybe he misjudged Isaac, he may not quite have Derek's testosterone levels but he'd give any Kowalski a run for his money, okay – and staggers slightly in the checkout direction. And raises a hand in salute as he goes. "Give it some for me!" he cries, and in the next aisle a red-headed shelf-stacker with the cutest blue eyes peers over, clocks him with clear recognition and hangs on his next words. "Tell him all about the lube! Describe the rimming!"

He's not sure he's given it quite enough with the volume there, but he's done his best, and he goes and antes up, to a checkout dude who knows who he is, and casts flirty eyes up through lashes that aren't a patch on Derek's.

xxx

When he gets through the door of his house, it's close on evening, and he expects more of a welcome than he gets. What, no howls? No _arf arf arf yap yap,_ no eager frisking about his ankles, no wagging tails?


	4. before he can become a wolf, the lycanthrope strips naked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One can have too much of naked!Derek. It's amazing, but Stiles has found out that it's a fact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is Angela Carter.

Derek has a key –- way too early for that, but he does just the same –- and Stiles has a dog, now. Where's his welcome, why is his face not being licked raw, does no-one want doggy treats? "What do I keep you for," he mutters to himself, shoving carriers of doggie paraphernalia down on the kitchen table. "Either of you?"

It's explained when he gets into the living room, though. Derek and the labrador puppy he bought Stiles –- unasked, without warning, without fucking checking first but after six weeks, Stiles is definitely getting used to that –- are slumped together flat out, spark out on the couch, faces mushed into leather that's sweaty in the heat.

Both of them are also stark bollock naked, which Stiles guesses is not so much of an issue if you're a cute li'l doggie. The luminous Adonis stretched out nude on his sofa, drowsing puppy snuffling at his shoulder, should be a bit of a shock, though.

But then, six weeks' sweet-hearting acquaintanceship with Derek Hale can harden you up to a lot of things, Stiles is finding. A lot, _lots_ , almost everything. Maybe not the collar and chain thing Derek's got going on, though. The end of the lead is tied around the sofa leg, the steel links are pressing red sore-looking marks into the skin of his neck and collarbone. How is he even still sleeping?

Stiles sighs, then clears his throat. Puppy –- Martha, she is, after Martha Stewart of course, Derek thinks it will encourage respect for Stiles' _House Beautiful_ –- startles awake immediately, and casts beautiful liquid brown eyes upon him reproachfully, silently. Fine guard dog _she'd_ make. Cosying up to the intruder and not even unsettled by the sudden appearance of someone she only met two days past, for all he's technically her new daddy. How is she to know that yet?

When he scoops her up, though, she does begin to yip and whine a little, enough to disturb the handsome man-meat drowsing thoughtfully on leather sofa-cushions, mouthing vaguely at the velour cushion he's mashed his face into. Stiles pets Martha –- _Mattie_ , he thinks, Mattie now. Based on her first impressions, she's not dignified enough for a Martha. And she nuzzles into his hand with a lot of doggie love and earnest desire for choccie drops, and gives out what is almost a proper, decent _arf_.

Derek has been stirring, restlessly. And now his eyelids rise, slow but steady, and eyes like clear stones on the bed of a stream fix on Stiles. He smiles. Oh, it's a nice smile, but nice smiles from Derek often enough bespeak evil intent. Six weeks, and Stiles knows _that_ much by now.

"Oh, you're home," he says. And reaches out beautifully muscled and completely frigging nude –- like the rest of him –- arms. Whether to Stiles or Mattie or both, it's not quite clear to Stiles. But he pulls his wriggling bundle back more firmly into his own arms anyway, purses his own rosebud disapprovingly, and heads for the kitchen, with Derek calling mournfully behind him from the couch.

"Bring back Martha," Derek calls, wistfully. "Where are you going? I need canine companionship, when you leave me alone all day long. I need my pack!"


	5. the devil's agents may be of flesh and blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles may not make the best master. He'd rather just be a sodding boyfriend, is that so bad?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Hound of the Baskervilles.

Stiles closes his eyes, shakes his head and almost walks into the kitchen door. "You're a bad influence," he yells behind him, as he tips Mattie into the kitchen and occupies her with a chewtoy and throwing a tennis ball. "If you're going to be hanging out in the _nude_ with my _adoptive daughter_ then I'm going to have to rethink your visitation rights. I don't know whether to be more worried on the basis of her age, or her species." Mattie is busy _arf_ ing around his ankles, now, evidently ready to start chewing his sock-cuffs in the absence of doggie treats, but he gets her to settle by her bowl and nose distastefully at some dry mix. It gives him long enough to go and give Derek a talking-to.

And of course he's still on the couch, still with an ass stone-free of any trace of synthetic or man-made fibre, cock just gently tweaked into slight alertness as he peacefully lies there, head on his hand. Still collared, still red and twingey about the neck. He smiles peacefully, bunny-toofs glinting as Stiles rubs his eyes, and wonders what he did in a past life to quite deserve _this_.

"Okay," Stiles says. "Dude, I've got Mattie settled. Uh, while we're here, man, is there anything you want to tell me? Like, is there any _reason_ why you are butt-naked? And wearing a dog-collar and lead?" Stiles feels his face stretch into unnatural levels of incredulity. He feel some other twinges and urges, too, but he represses them like a trooper. Because Derek is a reprehensible ass, and needs restraining (possibly bodily, possibly via straitjacket), not encouraging. However beautiful, stretched out languid like that, bound by his own choice and watching Stiles through his lashes.

"I was teaching Mattie," Derek answers, sounding thoroughly reasonable, and still a trifle sleepy. 

"Of course you were," Stiles mutters. He leans up against the door-frame and smushes his face into it, because he's not sure how much more of Derek he can take, or do without.

"Yeah," Derek agrees. "You know you took Isaac for a trip for dog supplies? I figured I'd get an early start, start teaching her a few basic commands, stay and go and sit and... We weren't getting anywhere." He throws his hands up into the air. No-one has ever looked more innocent.

So Stiles bashes his face into the door-frame, because that seems like about as reasonable a response as any. "Aahhhh," he moans. "AAAAAaagh." Words are failing him, and normally that happens about every ten years. But it's beginning to seem like Derek has a special knack, can dry 'em up like salt on a slug.

But after a little bit more, "Bbb –- bu –- bb –- bu-bu-bu-–" –- and another bash to the head–-

"Baby," Derek says softly. "Don't do that. You'll hurt yourself. And in my present position, I can't really come and take care of you."

 _Take care_ is almost certainly a euphemism, based on his current level of experience with Derek. Stiles wishes that didn't sound so good, and shoves it out of his mind with some degree of vim and vigour. "We weren't getting anywhere," Derek continues, face blithe and lovely, smiling like someone who knows exactly how much of an ass he's being. "So I thought, maybe if I did more showing and telling –- demonstrated what every command actually means –- then maybe she'd get it a little better. You know, get the message across."

And that causes Stiles to cease a moment with the head-bashing and the mental rending of the garments and sprinkling of the ashes. It almost makes sense, in a deeply disturbing way. He raises his head, and gives a nod towards Derek's glorious bod, his general state of free-hanging _deshabille_. "So that's why...?"

Derek looks down at his bountiful nudity, and shrugs. "I guess. But mostly it was pretty warm. The main thing is, it worked. Want me to show you?"


	6. the footprints of a gigantic hound!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles isn't used to being the sober and responsible one in a relationship. With Derek, he doesn't have a lot of choice in the matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Hound of the Baskervilles.

_No_ , is the answer to that, is what flickers immediately through Stiles' terrified mind. No, no, no, no, no, no... yes... no!

He doesn't spit it out quick enough to stop Derek, though. No, that lead is untied from the couch leg so much faster than the speed of sound, before Stiles has so much as a diphthong formed upon his lips to halt the maniac. (And if he can untie it himself then _why is it tied,_ except to dig deep into Stiles' psyche and make him explore kinks and inclinations that he never knew about himself. Things he would have been _perfectly happy_ never knowing about himself, what's more.)

Not only that –- not only is the lead swinging loose from a chain that's ratcheted too tight, Stiles can see it –- but Derek isn't content with letting it swing free. (Well, to be perfectly technically accurate –- and downright smutty –- and apply the description in all possible areas –- he _is_ letting it swing free. Depending on what you're referring to. Stiles averts his eyes, not because –- his chest puffs out a little, and he can't quite repress a little smirk –- he hasn't been there, experienced that and alllll the rest with a vengeance, and a few toys. But. Time and place, man. _Time and place._ And although this is his own house, and a private moment with the two of them undisturbed –- barring Mattie's occasional grunt and _arf_ from the direction of the kitchen –- there are priorities. Man. _Such_ priorities. See: get Derek to cease with the canine fixation and ideation. Maybe get him some clothes on. Cook dinner. Then naked fun-times, maybe. _Then_.)

It's sad, how yawning the chasm can be, between theory and practice, between idea and execution, though. No, because although everything else is hanging loose –- oh God, and how –- Derek has different ideas for his home-style little bit of restriction and binding. From the couch, in one single, graceful –- yes, rather lupine too –- bound, he hits Stiles' side, just gently nudging against Stiles' knees on all fours, as he reaches up and firmly slaps the lead in Stiles' hand.

"Oh, I'm in charge, am I?" Stiles asks, rather helpless. It's funny, _odd_ , how the more apparent authority and control Derek hands over to him –- and God knows it creeps up all the time –- the more he feels how much it's Derek who's running the show. He slaps the loops of the lead from one jittery hand to the other, loops it around his palm, and Derek growls. It's a very satisfied growl.

"Please don't abandon human speech please don't abandon human speech please don't abandon human speech _again_ –-" Stiles begins to mutter under his breath. (There have been two incidents, so far –- one in a fancy French fish restaurant, where he was humiliated by Derek insisting on a water-bowl on the floor, and howling when he was denied. The second, thankfully –- well, comparatively –- in a marina coming up to the dolphin enclosure. Derek had decided that wolves were natural buddies with dolphins -- ??? -- so got himself arrested for climbing over the fencing and diving in. There's something about marine creatures that brings out the mute –- but not silent –- wolfiness, in Derek.)

Derek snickers –- the _asshole_ –- and pushes his nose up against Stiles' knees, in his favorite vintage army fatigues. It's what would be a wet snuffle, if he actually had a canine nose. "Relax, babe. I'm just showing you my revolutionary training methods. Come on, baby," he coaxes, twisting his head up to eyeball Stiles, grinning under _criminal_ stubble. It makes him look like an illegally hot criminal, even if he wasn't tan and lithe and butt-naked. "Give me a command."

Stiles stares at him incredulously. Then leans down, and slaps Derek's ass. Because if ever there was a flagrant _coup de main,_ a casual jab of the foil as the fencer marks out an invisible territory and extends the prod of provocation... Oh shit, let's be honest. He just wants to whale the tar out of Derek, right about now. He's not going to examine his own motives too closely, either. That way madness surely lies.


	7. presume nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe Derek is crazy, maybe he's high. Maybe he's actually a werewolf. Stiles wouldn't rule much out, at this point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from The Hound of the Baskervilles.

Derek –- oh, of course –- only likes that. Only wriggles his ass, and raises one eyebrow like he's inviting more of the same. "Come on, babe," he insists, though. "Tell me what to do. Because otherwise," he says, menacingly, shuffling around to face Stiles, and beginning to snuffle some more, to bare his teeth, "I may just misbehave." He lets go with a little _aroo_ , and his perfectly human canines glint a little. Stiles has reason to know that, unimpressively un-were as they might be, off-screen, they can still inflict some damage. He's had the hickies to prove it. The ones that _Howl At The Moon'_ s make-up _meister_ , Danny, has had to plaster with enough panstick to fill in the cracks between bruise and tooth-dent.

Sometimes, he's learnt in a relatively short space of time, you just gotta humor Derek. Because the consequences, otherwise, are just too horrific to even entertain as an option. And that, that is when he's _sober_ –- apparently sober –- _allegedly_ sober.

Stiles isn't quite sure –- this far in –- that Derek is ever, at any point in the day, a hundred per cent straight. He's not thinking of sexual orientation here. But, pick your days, pick your battles, he reasons. There's an imminent crisis to hold off, right now.

"Okay! Okay, then," Stiles relents, because, hey, distinct lesser of two evils sitch going on. "Stay," he says, firmly. And promptly tests out his command, and Derek's obedience, by dropping the lead like it's hot and heading for the kitchen, where there is Mattie, who may be causing as much havoc as even Derek is capable of. Where there are also _refrigerators_ , and _beer_. It hasn't felt like an especially long day up until now. Not until now, faced with Derek, and his canine sistren, and misused misappropriated instruments of canine discipline. And Derek. And a few show-related phone-calls to make. And Derek.

But of course, of course, Derek's across the room almost before he is, bounding –- still all fours, oh very much so –- in front of Stiles, leaping up at him. And, and, trying to lick his face.

 _Fuckety crying out loud and Jesus sailing around the room naked on a tricycle._ But _apart_ from that.

He could maybe try reasoning with Derek. But if Derek wants to play wolf –- or wolf-hound –- or whatever the fuck –- then Stiles can go with that. So he tries hollering, instead. "STAY! Are you deaf, you mangy mutt? Stay! And when I say stay, I mean _stay_!"

Derek isn't noticeably discouraged. Is a lot too busy, wagging his ass, giving it some more crotch-sniffing –- that's his favourite part during his little, ah, episodes –- and no, not showing any noticeable signs of doing any staying at all, none. When Stiles half-turns, takes a step away, he's up on his haunches –- half-raised –- and all ready to follow. "When I say stay I mean it, goddamn it," Stile expostulates. He tries giving it a bit of variety, instead. "Sit! Sit and stay! Because if this is gonna be my evening then I need a goddamn beer."

He reaches for the lead, gives it a slight, very slight tug, and Derek whines and gives him some rolly-eyed sulking beseechment. Then utters actual human language, Gods be praised. "Come on, lemme move somewhere else," he coaxes Stiles, head lunging forward to brush soft product-less hair against Stiles' khakis. "This ridge is cutting into my knees." It's true, he's right on the threshold where the edge of the door-frame is raised and proud, and it's pretty hard and has to be uncomfortable where it's working red ridges into Derek's shins. Although, Stiles might be tempted to point out, that would not be a fucking issue, if only Derek would get up and do the _biped_ thing that humanity's been rocking for a few hundred thousand years now, would accept the dictates of Darwin and just stand on two fucking feet and stop _howling_ already.

But. Small battles, first. He's just about to concede some ground, to send D back into the living room while he refreshes himself with a microbrew and checks on Mattie, where she's probably chewing up his prehistoric landline wiring like she's been doing for the past couple of days. But Derek derails that thought, something Derek is very good at, by closing heavy lids on those lovely eyes, leaning into Stiles' hand and licking it, slow, thorough, one single lap. And murmuring, quiet and wistful, "Master. Can I find somewhere more comfortable? Arf. Arf arf _arf_."


	8. not such a hound as mortal eyes have ever seen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So now Stiles is a two-pets man? He so did not sign up for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Hound of the Baskervilles.

Ah, fuck, fuck, ahh... All the will to fight his inevitable defeat condenses in Stiles into a sighing puddle of aquiescent infatuated mush. _Master_ , yeah, he surely needed to hear _that_. He whimpers, flees to the kitchen, and bangs the door shut behind him. And tries to block his ears, and harden his heart, to the soft ululations, the whine and scritch-scratching, that follows him audibly through the clicked-shut kitchen door.

Derek is great at wrenching hearts. He can do it with a stony face and a tortured expression on the TV screen, or he can do it with softened eyes, and wistful expressions, and little whimpers in the back of his throat in person. (Oh, much effective in bed.)

Mattie's asleep again, slobbering over the blanket in her dog-basket, so he has a moment of unusual peace, there. He kneels down beside her, and unwisely rests his cheek against her sleeping flank. "Mattie," he murmurs, resolutely ignoring the pitiful little squeals –- a squeal, out of Derek Hale's throat, that would go down well with Stiles' wolf-loving audience all right –- from the other side of the kitchen door. "Mats. What am I going to do with with this asshole?"

Mats snuffles some more in her sleep, and grizzles a little. It sounds a lot –- he's not imagining this –- like a shrug of shoulders and a ' _jeez, man, I dunno, whatya gonna do, it's tough, I dunno_.' Well, _something_ like, anyhow.

Mattie is adorable, and not really useful for the bro talks, and not just because she's one of the sistren. He climbs up the refrigerator, instead, hanging on like someone washed in sudsy water and wrung out, and takes a beer out. Stands and looks at it a minute, thinking, and then shrugs. He's thought about making his place a straight-edge zone, removing all temptation. Except he's barely seen Derek even minutely impaired, so far. By alcohol, anyway. What would be the point?

So he takes a swallow, breathes hard and shakes himself loose, getting ready. Opens up the kitchen door, and Derek falls in, snoring heavily in some really badly-feigned sleep. Still on the floor, still on all fours.

Stiles kicks him –- gently. It's justified. Derek 'wakes up', at that, howls loud enough to wake his sis, leaps up and scampers off into the living room, and Stiles' head jerks sideways. Yeah, he's disturbed Mattie. And there's no way Stiles can cope with the both of them right now, so he scoots, following Derek and banging the door shut on Mattie. Who hits it just as he clicks it, a fur-bundle slamming bulls'-eye in the middle of a nice hefty chunk of cedar with will and intent, some impressive reflexes and a justified sleep-deprived wrath. Stiles can read the signs. This little pup is learning from Derek, all right. She's learning from his bad, bad, terrible, psychotically-damaging example. She's well on the road to doggy gaol, if Stiles is any judge.

But he leaves her howling like she's aiming to get the neighbours to call PETA, because. Triage, man. The quiet ones are more likely to be dead or dead soon, at an accident scene. And Derek is disturbingly quiet, right now.

Which could easily be a good sign. Or a really, really bad one. Stiles steels himself. before stepping into the living room doorway, then relaxes all over, all over. It's good, very good: because Derek is actually _sitting on the couch_ like a real live sane normal human being. Okay, admittedly, he's still butt-naked. But! This is progress! Of a kind. Stiles feels indescribably tired. He's spent the day arguing out the guest-list and outline of the next episode, and firing a useless intern, and being a chat-show host isn't all fan-gifts and celebrity hook-ups, or beer and skittles. No. It's _hard work._


	9. I covet your skull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek is a gorgeous, sexy animal. A _wild_ animal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Hound of the Baskervilles.

It's very hard work, quite often. Shut _up_. (Anyone who saw Derek's debut on the show knows, anyhow, just what hard work it can be. And terrifying. The words 'baptism of fire' also spring readily to mind.)

Derek is also reading the Post, a real nicely smudged and inky old-school print copy, that Stiles religiously has delivered for sentiment's sake, and never reads. He has his spectacles on, too. (Where the hell did they come from? There are very limited options, given Derek was nude when Stiles first walked in, and Stiles has no idea where his clothes have been stashed.)

He looks, as always, viciously handsome in spectacles. It's more than unfair. But he's occupied, he's doing biped-type activities, maybe they can just make dinner and chat about their days and act like this whole incident never–-

Derek lifts his eyes, spots Stiles, and all this wonderful, gold-star-earning progress goes for a burton. Newspaper goes flying, spectacles come off with one hinge snapping on the way, and Derek's back into quadripedal mode. And going for Stiles' ankles.

"Get –- the fuck–-" It takes a lot of vigorous discouragement, but Stiles manages to chasten and subdue Derek. Somewhat. He isn't sure whether licking or biting was the original intent, but suffers a bit of both before Derek subsides, sulkily, and then retreats. His lead trails sadly over the floor, limp, and Stiles knows exactly how it feels. Or would, if reification of inanimate objects weren't limited to Pixar and Disney and fanfiction. Discipline isn't, evidently, one of Stiles' talents. It's fortunate he never tried to make a living as a pro dom in a commercial dungeon.


End file.
